By Kesava Krsna Dasa
I had never visited any Hare Krishna temple nor met any devotees, except two years previously as a seventeen year old; I received a blue covered Bhagavad Gita from a book distributor. I was neither a vegetarian nor followed any religious activity.
Our family life was so cosseted from anything remotely different from the norm that is – not straying from one extreme to another – which the punk and drug culture did to appeal to the disaffected youth during the late seventies. So close we were, everything from picnics, holidays, fishing, the Sunday drive out into the countryside and so on, we did together. There were no extenuating circumstances in which to join the Hare Krishna temple.
But that Bhagavad Gita and Srila Prabhupada’s words full of avid conviction, I knew contained all of life’s answers and that my brother Paravidya prabhu too was reading it. In case of any eventuality, the teachings of Lord Krishna would be my recourse in life.
But my active social life continued, which consisted of playing for a rugby team on Saturdays, a football team on Sundays, squash league midweek, attending pubs and discos, aside from the nine to five occupation, all in harmony with budding teenage hormones. If ever I brought up philosophical issues concerning the meaning of life, no one cared to discuss such things.
But something was unsettling, my attempt to derive inner fulfillment was misplaced. None of my shared friendship, team camaraderie and normal living could shroud the ever persistent truth of the Bhagavad Gita. Quite simply, it had changed my life. But there were still no pressing reasons for me to join the Hare Krishnas. The cloak of a very compact comfort zone was Kali’s excellent delaying mechanism. Then quite by surprise a Back to Godhead magazine was sent to me after two years – I remembered scribbling my address on a piece of paper given to the sankirtana devotee.
With my interest rekindled I spent more time reading Bhagavad Gita. My active social life subsided; I gave up my job, and contemplated more about joining, but how to tell this to my family? As the days went by I gave hints I would be joining a monastery or some place.
Giving up my career was already a cause for some friction in the family. I hated observing the artificiality by which people in the workplace or elsewhere posed as friends towards each other yet engaged in skullduggery and backstabbing to enhance their own careers. Little wonder the sankirtana devotee rather abrasively scowled: “All these people out here; there are just like cats and dogs.’
My impatience grew more and more until I telephoned Bhaktivedanta Manor to enquire about visiting there. A devotee answered then passed me on to the guest master. A strange thing happened while I held the phone. A perfumed aroma assailed my sense of smell. It did not come from the room I was located, yet it hung there for the duration of the call. It was accompanied by very slight crackling sensation.
I announced to the family I would be visiting the temple and may, repeat, may not come back home. This caused a little consternation especially since cults and deprogrammers frequently made news. Then again my parents thought it might be another passing teenage phase.
One week later I journeyed about 200km and entered the Soho street temple in central London. I was introduced to Rasa Mandala prabhu the then temple treasurer. He gave me some japa beads and taught me the Maha-mantra. Later on Rohininandana prabhu came to take me to the Manor in his little mini. I noticed that a co-passenger in the car was a punk star of the day named Polystyrene. The year was early 1980.
We alighted from the car and walked to the entrance. After taking off my shoes I approached the temple room along the corridor. I was struck by the same fragrance I had smelt over the phone. Where did it come from? It was incense being offered to Sri Sri Radha Gokulananda.
Sri Sri Radha Gokulananda ki jaya!
Ys, Kesava Krsna dasa.